Jack Lancaster

I try to sit down to write about why I write, but instead first write down a memory that I want to write about later, about the last time I was inspired to write. I tell myself to remember what it felt like on the day that I walked 15 miles in San Francisco, up to the hilly Presidio Heights just to play pretend new home-buyer by myself. This was a dewy, mild day, as it was on the day I began this exploration. What is it about long walks, treading amongst the unobtrusive strangers, that evokes something beyond memory, beckoning me into action? Can I remember what kind of life I imagined for myself in these massive home? Not yet, at least not without further introspection, but I do remember how coming down those hills I sat on a park bench and pulled out my notebook to write some poems. I remember the pen I used, the dark blue one my parent's bought me in Sweden. And I remember the sourdough slice I pulled out of a wrapped napkin I had tucked away into my backpack for safe keeping. 

         And here we arrive at bread, another image that for reasons of nostalgia, appreciation, and connotation, pops back up in my head. My best friend Erin who often can speak for me to others without asking my opinion is always perplexed at how I even come up with the things I say when they seem to flow almost seamlessly into something completely different. I can trace these thoughts back to the origin, showing how my brain spins the roulette of memory, helping Erin follow Ariadne’s thread outwards from the Minotaur that just came out of my mouth. While I’m thankful for these automatic thoughts, they more often go to an anxious or dark place than they lead to a new discovery. In either case I attempt to not label these processes as positive or negative, but instead take stock of what these thoughts were and why I seemingly went there. This composes much of my personal journaling. When writing for a specific purpose, I typically spiral out from my personal experiences in order to make sense of my own path in it. Journaling has helped me recognize that this more purposeful writing doesn’t have to be sourced in whims of inspiration, but rather can be molded from trying to explain the leaps that my own mind takes, sometimes leaving the rest of me behind. Why figs, the prodigal son, bread, or the way my ex didn’t meet my eye contact when reading give me something that I continuously want to talk about in writing I’m not sure. They are not consciously a burden or a pleasure for me (aside from the aforementioned sourdough habit). But they remind me of the fact that I write because it takes all that I manifest in my head and puts them into just words. There is concreteness in this physical form regardless of the profundity of the affect it may create in a reader. So often I worry about what the next step to take tomorrow is that I can waste away today. Writing helps me realize that there is no right path, but there is a path that I’m on and can usually trust in.

         These reasons, among others, contribute to the most important reason that I write. I enjoy it. Writing assignments feel like a study break compared to the rest of my work. I take great pride when being complimented for my work in writing above all else and truly think that it was the first thing that someone told me I was good at. I derive the same value out of this as I do finishing cooking a good meal or when I attempted to recreate the hanging gardens of Babylon above my bed for the feeling of creation. In creation, there is a beginning. Writing is the chance to write my own origin stories each time. 

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